HER CAREER + writing
BIRTHING A BOOK...
OH, THE LABOR! BY JAN KURTZ | SUBMITTED PHOTOS BY JAN KURTZ
W
riting a book is like being pregnant without a due date. It is like driving in thick fog, squinting through the low beams searching for the white line, hoping to stay on track. It is an act of faith – a journey not to be tread alone. I was so naïve.
I thought writing was about sitting in a peaceful space, laptop propped on my out-stretched legs, Matcha Maker steaming in my tea cup, maybe candles flickering and classical music surround sound setting the mood. Words would flow out of my fingertips, pirouetting over the white expanse of my page. Maybe I could even hope for what some authors claim they have, an ethereal entity, complete with name and personality, channeling ancient wisdom ripe for publication. Current wisdom for writers includes getting up early while the household sleeps. Write several thousand words per day without stopping to edit – thus avoiding the swirling abyss of doubt and recriminations. Attend writing seminars. Join a writing group. Read best sellers. Of these I was doing one. I belonged to a group – Homer’s Writing Group (named after Donna’s dog, not the author of the “Iliad”). We met monthly. One fateful afternoon I read my essay about a phone call that took me from my daily doings to translate in two emergency rooms for a farmworker of Zapotec descent who had been kicked in the head by the cow she was milking. “How do you get into these situations?” Maggie asked. “Spanish,” I replied without hesitation. “You should write your Spanish stories,” she continued, “put them in a book.” Thus I began the habit of rising at 5:30 a.m. in the winter dark and later, spring dawns. In these wee hours, the stories of Central American refugees, Mayan Indians seeking medical treatment, international exchange students trying to navigate our school system and prom culture filled my word documents. I figured I’d just remember and write. No research. It was my life, after all. Wrong. Almost immediately, I was second guessing my memories. I called Mom. 20
her voice | summer 2020 • share your voice with us
